‘I thought there’d be an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just that you’d been missing the cut and thrust of being a detective at the sharp end, was it?’
‘That as well. . a bit. . but it just seemed to be a good chance to get a sneak preview of the bastards, when they’re not expecting us. Always an eye-opener to drop in on folk when they’ve just got off the toilet, if you know what I mean.’
Henry knew. Good tactic.
‘The whole Sweetman investigation was conducted from there.’
‘Supposing he isn’t in?’
FB shrugged. ‘In that case, I’ll just have a nosy round with you.’
‘I take it that you have a bit of a plan in your head.’
‘Oh yes.’ FB tapped his slightly bulbous nose, which Henry thought was getting slowly fatter and redder. . probably because of the wine. ‘I speak to the superintendent whilst you chat to the troops — ostensibly about Keith Snell — but if you can also manage to drop a few innocent but loaded questions about Sweetman and get some reactions, that would be good.’
Henry did not respond to this half-baked approach. He had no great desire to get involved in the Sweetman job until the Snell murder was out of the way. The fact that the two inquiries had some common ground only muddied the water for him. He would have liked to keep them separate and he hoped there was no true connection, but he also knew he would have to keep his antenna tuned in for any.
And now, after what seemed like the millionth journey during his life down the M61, he was sitting in a CID office whilst FB was chinwagging with the detective superintendent (who was in). He speculated on a few things while waiting, his mind butterflying over the walls in his mind.
Keith Snell — low life — murdered. Why?
Tara Wickson, lovely, lovely, lovely body. . even sat there, Henry could still feel her fingers. He crossed his legs.
Kate Christie, ex-wife, to whom he wanted to remain faithful; he seemed to have a button in his brain more destructive than the US president’s nuclear one.
And Karl Donaldson — what the hell was he up to, buggering off to Spain?
Henry shook his head and ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. Waited, watched, thought, worried.
His mobile phone blurted out that Stones riff, the one that had annoyed FB. The one he would therefore be keeping. The display told him it was from Karl Donaldson’s home number. Ahh, he thought, the coincidence of life.
‘Hi, Karl, back already?’
There was a faltering silence on the line, then, ‘No, Henry, it’s me, Karen.’
‘Karen. . hi,’ he said warily, responding to the tone of voice of Karl Donaldson’s wife. She sounded upset. Henry knew her well. She had once been a police officer in Lancashire, where Donaldson had met her. They had fallen in love, married, had kids, all that palaver. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and now headed their training centre at Hendon. Once, Henry had severely disliked her, but now they were good friends. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Karl,’ she said.
Immediately, Henry’s insides went empty. This sounded like bad news. ‘What about him?’
‘I just haven’t heard from him. Do you know where he is?’
‘I spoke to him last night. . he said he was in Spain. .’
‘Spain?’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you mean, Spain?’
‘Spain. . y’know, the country, Spain. He said he was there regarding you know who.’ Henry did not want to say the name Mendoza, but also felt rather silly saying, ‘You know who.’ He stood up and crossed to the window, feeling he would be less likely to be overheard there.
‘He told me he was going to see you,’ Karen said accusingly.
‘Oh.’
‘So do you know where he really is?’ she demanded, obviously thinking Henry was trying to pull the wool over her eyes.
‘No. I spoke to him on the phone last night and he said he was in Spain. Are you saying he hasn’t told you?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Have you spoken to anyone at the Legat in the American Embassy?’
‘Yes. Nobody knows where he is.’
Henry felt a kind of creeping-crawling sensation cover his skin, contracting it tight. Could it be that Karl was on a non-authorized job? And what was worse, had it gone wrong somehow? He coughed mentally in order to make his next words sound upbeat. ‘I wouldn’t be worried, Karen. He’s probably trying to find a phone charger right now.’
‘But he always phones. He always tells me where he is, where he’s going. But not this time. I thought something was wrong with him. He hasn’t been acting normal, really distracted, really not with it. His mind somewhere else. Jesus. . do you think he’s having an affair?’
‘Nope,’ Henry said without hesitation.
‘Then what? They have public phones in Spain, don’t they? It’s not like a third-world country.’ She was gradually losing it, becoming hysterical.
‘I’m sure everything’s fine. . now, come on, Karen’ — he didn’t dare call her ‘love’ because she was a superintendent — ‘he’ll be fine.’
‘But what if he’s got into trouble? No one knows where he is,’ she said.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Henry said firmly. ‘This is Karl Donaldson you’re talking about.’
‘I know, I know,’ she cried. ‘It’s just that. . I’m at my wits’ end, OK?’
‘Karen, look, I’m in Manchester at the moment on a job. Just keep annoying the embassy and get them to talk to you. You know what they’re like. . secret squirrels and all that. If you need someone to talk to, Kate’s at home today, give her a ring. I’ll get back to you when I can. I’m sure he’ll be fine. . no one gets the better of Karl, the good-looking bastard.’ That ending brought a little laugh from Karen.
‘Right, right,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up, leaving Henry with a dead phone in his mitt. He slowly folded it over and dropped it back into his pocket, thinking that if there was one thing Donaldson did, it was keep in contact with Karen — unlike Henry, who was poor at calling in to Kate. Donaldson was smitten with Karen and, because of this, the lack of contact made Henry suspicious.
Turning away from the window, Henry saw FB and two detectives he did not know enter the office. The three of them made their way towards him.
Henry — the cop from the sticks — took this brief chance to size up the two Manchester detectives.
To say they were spick ’n’ span was an understatement. Both were impeccably dressed, class suits, matching ties and hankies folded into breast pockets. Their creases were as sharp as knife blades, their brogues shiny and creaking as they walked confidently and cockily, rolling their shoulders. Both put the rather shabbily dressed FB to shame — FB the hick cop from a hick force with his hick running mate, Henry.
These two Manchester City detectives were the epitome of the big city jack. Sharp, sassy, cocksure and very arrogant.
For a moment Henry felt a shade underdressed in his Burton’s off-the-rack.
‘I’d like you to meet DCI Henry Christie,’ FB was saying. The older of the two jacks reached forward and gave Henry’s right paw a quick tug. ‘This is Superintendent Easton.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Henry said. The skin of Easton’s hand was smooth and dry. Henry could smell aftershave on him.
‘Henry’s here for two reasons,’ said FB. ‘He’s investigating the murder of a guy called. .?’ FB’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s he called, Henry?’
‘Keith Snell.’
‘That’s it. . one of your local denizens. His body was found just over the border in Lancs a few days ago. . you probably heard about it. The one who was shot and burned? Just got the ID through.’
‘Yeah,’ said Easton. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell, though.’ Easton scratched his head. Henry caught the nervous gesture and instinctively knew Easton was lying. ‘OK.’ Easton turned to the other detective, a younger man, standing on the balls of his feet, rocking. He tossed a thumb in his direction. ‘Phil here will give you a hand with that. He can be your SPOC.’